


in this world, there's no such thing as soulmates

by kwritten



Category: All For the Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 14:42:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6199054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kwritten/pseuds/kwritten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for the <a href="http://femslashbb.livejournal.com/12935.html?thread=210567#t210567"></a>prompt: <i>what disasters we live</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	in this world, there's no such thing as soulmates

**Author's Note:**

  * For [growlery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/gifts).



You’d think they’d been made in the same place, or from the same ingredients, the way they were with each other. 

There was something tragically _fantastic_ about their world, in all the ways that it wasn’t anything like what you see on TV, or in the movies, but was close enough to a book you read once as a kid that maybe _magic_ wasn’t the wrong word for how Renee’s head fit against Allison’s shoulder, or the way Allison’s fingernails felt scraping against Renee’s scalp. 

Except there wasn’t anything magical at all about the scars on Renee’s skin, marring that perfect flesh, or the nightmares that plagued Allison every night, no matter how tightly Renee held her. 

 

 

There was a thirty second window, every morning, between opening her eyes and beginning her day, when she seriously considered schluffing off the mask and cape she put on every morning. Her eyes narrowed and something inside of her that was always hard and sharp stiffened and yearned to spread outwards to the very tips of her fingers and toes. 

Thirty seconds, every morning, when the thought of rolling out of bed and walking out the door as her old self felt like a _comfort_ , like an old blanket waiting to warm her and keep her safe. 

It wasn’t much, just thirty seconds, just half a minute, less than a passing thought really. 

It was everything. 

There was a thirty second window, every morning, and sometimes when she walked down the hall or when there wasn’t fresh coffee in the kitchen or when she stubbed her toe or when she squinted into the sun because she forgot her sunglasses or when a douchebag whistled at her instead of minding his own fucking business, when Renee thought about just _not trying_ , for one day or one week or one hour. Thirty seconds, when Renee considered being the person she was trained to be instead of the _good_ person she was trying to be. 

It wasn’t much. 

 

 

“Hold still,” Allison yanked painfully on Renee’s hair. 

Renee wrinkled her nose and tried to look up over her own head at Allison by just rolling her eyes back as far as they could physically go, “Why does it smell so awful today?”

“It’s bleach. It always smells awful.”

Renee shrugged, earning herself a sharp pain just over her left temple for moving, “Smells worse today.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

Renee hummed and picked up her book – something small and paperback that smelled like cigarettes and had no cover, undoubtedly from Andrew and therefore skirting that edge of pretentious that all his interests pretended not to be. 

Allison spent the next twenty minutes applying bleach to Renee’s roots and then various amounts of purple to the tips to create a sort of ombre-effect, bitching the whole time about how Renee should just _pay_ someone to fucking do this. 

The effect was just what she wanted and after another ten minutes of stilted posing and Instagram filters, Renee was finally able to drag Allison out of the room for dinner. 

 

 

Every morning, for about half a moment, she considered quitting. Just quitting. Calling in a favor, picking up the phone and apologizing and running back to spas and mani-pedis and island get-aways and someone else making all the hard choices. Her eyes widened and the soft thing inside of her, the part that told her she was too weak, too fragile, too soft, too stupid, too small to do anything on her own, yearned for someone to take charge. 

Half a moment, every morning, when the thought of rolling over and burying her head under the covers and letting the real world pass her by felt like the best kind of fairy tale. 

It wasn’t a lot, just half a moment, less than a minute, just a passing thought really. 

It was everything. 

Every morning as the sun filtered through her window, for just half a moment, or when she handed in a paper or when her muscles hurt from practice or when the heavy feeling of doubt in her chest just wouldn’t go away or when she was sure she said the wrong thing or when every challenged felt like a steep uphill climb, Allison considered _giving up_ , taking the money and the regret and the completely planned-out life. Half a moment, when Allison thought about being the person people expected her to be, instead of the person she wanted to be. 

It wasn’t much. 

 

 

You would have thought they were made of the same stuff, the way they were with each other. All their sharp edges and soft parts lining up so perfectly, so ready to defend each other, to be an armor for the other. 

It was almost like magic, if they believed in magic. 

(Which they didn’t.)


End file.
